


Behind Enemy Lines

by LeftToTheDark



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Childhood Memories, Gen, Gift Fic, Hurt No Comfort, Literary References & Allusions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:46:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29934990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeftToTheDark/pseuds/LeftToTheDark
Summary: Jason remembers the past as the news of his ownership is announced.
Relationships: Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25





	Behind Enemy Lines

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Walor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Walor/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Vendetta](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14746694) by [Walor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Walor/pseuds/Walor). 



> Hello!! 
> 
> This is a gift to Walor. Thank you for giving me permission to write about your fic, Vendetta. It's genuinely one of my favourite fics to read.
> 
> To place this into context, Jason remembers the past after getting slapped by Bruce. 
> 
> Beta'd by the wonderful Ozoh.

It was a castle.

Jason believed this as he caught sight of the walls. They were not made with cheap brick stained with years of smog – the crude yellow hidden beneath lashes of smoker-ash grey. Nor did they crumble in the face of recent storms; waves of water seeping through cracks and soaking his decrepit bed frame. Instead, a French vanilla shade layered the wondrous castle. It’s pristine colour a fort against the grime that marked the citizens of Gotham and refused to be washed out. Jason knew he brought this dirt from the corners of Crime Alley. The veil of sins, blended with blood and tears, obscured these areas from cops. Not that they would help. Their default settings ranged from driving past the cries of the innocent, blaring their sirens to suggest a new case. All this in between having had their pants around their ankles and an omegan hooker on their knees. Through this, Jason was taught a lesson early in life. That there was no such thing as help. Even kindness held an IOU waiting to be cashed in. He could only rely on himself.

These words held the same weight as the heavens which rested on Atlas’s shoulders, a Titan from the poetry book stolen from a strange neighbour. The old lady – the scent of decaying flowers radiating off her – had been sleeping in her living room with the front door open. Her head was tilted back and cushioned on what seemed to be her favourite armchair – a prehistoric, ratty thing with a yellowing bunny print. Slipping in with ease, Jason snuck over to her small library of books and nicked a few into a plastic bag. One of which was a book on classic poetry. Jason crept back out with the same finesse his mother had when stealing from the pharmacy to sustain her heroin addiction. She would sell fake pills in prescription bottles on the backstreets, forcing Jason to concoct a story about an illness he had. That’s not to say their need for money was any less real. He had not eaten properly in days.

“Telling the truth gets you nowhere,” his mother told him, as she dipped a needle into discoloured liquid and pulled the end of the syringe. “It only causes pain. That’s why your mama needs this. Needs to forget about the pain. Will you help mama forget, JJ?”

Jason nodded as he began to wrap a ripped rubber band around her forearm.

He made sure to close the door as the old, hairless woman forgets this from time to time, the reason Jason was able to steal more books. He’d spend the rest of the day in his room, reading about the tragic trials of heroes and cruelty dealt by Greek gods. It was only after a few weeks a certain smell began to creep through the halls. Like dandelions had been left in the trash, only to be regurgitated by the animals who tried to consume it. The smell permeated the entire building floor, causing multiple complaints to the landlord. It was when a door was broken down that the source of the odour was discovered.

The old woman was dead.

She had died sleeping in her beloved chair.

Jason did not flinch at the news. He did not do anything. What could be done? All he could do was the right thing by the books he robbed, keep them somewhere that no one else would touch. It became his own memorial. A remembrance of his unwitting benefactor that unknowingly opened his world to heroes, villains and romantic antiheroes. She would no longer be known as the barren beta whispered by other residents. And maybe, like the misunderstood villainesses in gothic novels, the old woman could finally find peace wherever she laid. This is what Jason wanted to believe. The same way he believed Wayne Manor was actually a castle. The granite path leading to the manor seemed like a stone carpet laid out for a king, his car a carriage driven forward by hundreds of electronic horses.

“A castle,” he had told Bruce, unable to keep the wonder from his voice. The man drove down the smooth road. No potholes like the ones downtown. It left him in childish awe. “This has to be a castle.”

The alpha – _Guardian? Adoptive father?_ – chuckled. His eyes were bright with the same start-up blue Jason found when turning on a coloured television screen for the first time. The sensation of warmth it created curled around him like a cat in the sun. The feeling nestled itself somewhere beneath the ribs poking out of skin, further evidence of his malnourishment. He questioned if Bruce felt the same as he had in that moment; the joy and relief that his shitty future was not set in stone. The idea only strengthened his resolve. He would not become like his mother who warped into the sorrowful medusa when her drug-addled state ebbs away. He would not become like his father – broken bottles scattered around his feet, each drink propelling his rage. He could be himself here. Despite not knowing his secondary gender, Jason had high hopes that he would present as an alpha to make the man who adopted him proud. Anything less was unacceptable. Anything less than a beta would only cause pain. He had seen this happen. Knew the rules.

“It’s not a castle,” Bruce laughed as he pulled the car into the roundabout. The sound was deep and rich, seeming to emanate from the pit of his stomach. They stopped before a small flight of stairs leading to a gigantic double door. “It’s Wayne Manor. Your new home.”

Jason beamed; his cheeks stretched so wide that his dry lips cracked. _I can be happy here_ , he told himself. Repeated it like a secret prayer only he knew the words to. _I can be happy. I deserve to be happy._

Jason stepped out of the car – _my carriage_ – when Bruce asked him to. Leaving the keys in the ignition, the man closed the door on his side and made his way over to Jason. Together, they both went up the stairs. Jason knew Bruce slowed his pace so that his skinny form could keep up. He was grateful for that. He did not think he could handle a brisk run without going out of breath. Even still, took them several minutes to ascend to the threshold because Jason could not help but take in every detail of his new surroundings. A multitude of arched windows hung above him – maybe even taller than him. Never in his life had he seen paned windows as something luxurious, as the frames which held the glass in place looked to be high-quality. And most likely were. The various flowers – _not dead, never dead_ – are specially arranged to enhance the elegance of every space.

 _Camelot_ , he realised. If there was a castle of heroes, this would be it. And here Jason stood, ready to take a spot of his own. Ready to become a knight. Jason thought of himself as Lancelot and Bruce as Arthur, each brandishing their swords against evil. The very thought had him giggling as Bruce knocked on the front door, sending curious glances his way. The quick raps from Bruce caused three booms to echo, hinting at the large space behind it. Within seconds of the door opening, Jason caught the scents of soft spices and calming rain wafting through the air. A butler came into view, an ageing man with wisps of white hair. His clothes consisted of a black suit and white dress shirt. Jason stared at first, but soon came to return the elder’s soft smile, one that seemed to promise unconditional kindness.

Yes, Jason thought, this will be his home.

He walked inside.

His cheek still stings.

Bruce and Damian left the room, leaving Jason to his own devices. However, he does not think he can stand without the aftershock of earlier events wobbling his knees. So, he stays on the floor, the lone thing that catches him. The wood beneath him holds a chill that burns the tips of his fingers and the palms of his hands. This does not bother him. Nothing can. Not anymore. He sits in the same comforting silence he once loved, regressing into the child he used to be. His hulking figure felt as insignificant as the thinly veiled dust coating vacant furniture every morning. It’s as if he’s returned _home_. To 71A Hawthorn Tower, Park Row, and all the violence hidden behind that peeling green door. To where he hoarded the books of a dead woman to mask his guilt. Where his own mother had OD’d, without cops coming to collect her.

There he was again. Back with the rot. The pungent stench. The dead body of his mother holding him. He thought Bruce would at least protect him from that. Would keep him safe in the maze of halls.

This manor was not Camelot – he knows that now.

It was Jadis’ Castle. 

The White Witch.

And poor twelve-year-old Jason never knew the enemy was within. 


End file.
